


4. Piano

by bluebirdcastiel



Series: Hunters Who Hunt No More [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M, Music
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-04
Updated: 2013-09-04
Packaged: 2017-12-25 15:11:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/954603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebirdcastiel/pseuds/bluebirdcastiel
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas and Sam uncover a piano within the depths of the bunker and Castiel, it turns out, can play.</p>
            </blockquote>





	4. Piano

**Author's Note:**

> {{ this was a drabble I wrote ages ago and so I'm putting it in here - not nsfw as I promised, I know. That will all come soon enough... }}

When the evening sets in, the bunker of the Men of Letters adopts something of a delicate, mystical ambience; dusty hallways are drowned in the ghostly orange glow of gas lighting, the library and all of those great, billowing rooms cast into a somewhat otherworldly dimension in their shadowy greeting of the dusk. Naturally, this mellow atmosphere is but amplified by the tinkling cadence of piano playing that does drift with grace through the winding halls and many rooms, blown into existence by the nimble fingers of a fractured, fallen angel. Castiel had not anticipated the aged grand piano to bring him such joy when they had discovered it in a previously uncovered alcove within one of the bunker’s many study rooms. The Winchesters had dubbed such rooms as ‘studies’ due to the simple shelving/desk arrangement that many of them housed, but often they discovered a study that held other things; a hundred type-writers or more, stacked on top of one another like bodies in a morgue, a single, empty coffin with the initial UW carved into the side, paintings of men long dead or rack upon rack of old military uniforms, or indeed a solitary grand piano. 

It had been Sam that day, accompanying Cas about his daily meanderings about the bunker. Cas often grew disheartened by the constant talk of Heaven and Dean’s thus far inconclusive investigation into Metatron and his recent dastardly doings, and so began to wander the halls of his only home since heaven to see what he could find. The place was just so big, there was never a day that Cas found nothing, though many days saw him opening large oak doors to be greeted only by more dust-covered screens or bookshelves, many of them empty. It had been a Tuesday, the day that Sam and Castiel came across the piano. It was an unexpected discovery, to say the least. Cas had been pleased, had found it warmed his heart a little to find that the Men of Letters did allow time for such things, that they had sometimes indulged in artistic proclivities or more trivial pursuits than their workplace generally seemed to imply. This had not been, however, his only sentiment upon uncovering the piano; many centuries ago Cas had been placed within a human vessel on Earth for just over a year, wherein he inhabited a grand old house in the south of France and was not to speak to any human at all could he help it. The house had simply been a waiting point for Cas, somewhere that he was stationed in order to be readily available to receive orders should his Earthly positioned superiors require his input. Thus, Cas was left utterly alone for almost 400 days in a house with only one significant inhabitant, this being a classical French piano. It had only been something to pass the time, then. Something to while away his fruitless days on Earth, back when the world that Heaven oversaw meant very little to him, though he had never quite despised the artistic nature of humanity as his brothers all had. 

Now, the piano in the bunker is much more, to Castiel. This piano is different, is soulful. He feels the notes he plays, now, has done since the first time he sat upon the grainy leather stool to lay his finger tips against the ivory keys, to prove to Sam that he could play since Sam had not believed him, at first. Sam stood close behind him, watched as Cas presented Bach’s Goldberg Variations in perfect, crystalline clarity for his closest friend to behold. It had shocked him, at first, how good Cas was, and Sam had texted Dean, still sitting hunched over ancient lore books in the library, telling him to Get down here, Cas can play piano!. That evening was spent throwing out suggestions and requests for Cas to demonstrate for them; they found a whole box of sheet music in the closet beside the piano and continually produced more complex and up-tempo pieces for Cas to play until his knuckles began to ache and he demanded a rest. 

Tonight, Castiel is not playing anything quite so ostentatious. Instead, he has cracked open a manual of Chopin’s Nocturnes and is plodding through each with half-lidded eyes, his entire body swaying where he sits along with each phrase, each perfect moment of music. It is almost dreamlike, the state he is in, the music flowing from him now, where it only ever flowed through him when Dean played things for him on the radio, or put on one of his records of an afternoon. There is a romanticism to the melodies and Castiel’s heart is heavy as he plays, for such things make him think of his love and thinking of Dean when Dean is not around generally leads to a doting sort of melancholy for Cas. He does not realise that Dean is sitting beside him, gaze drifting sleepily from the keys to his face, until he finishes a piece and catches sight of the other man in his peripheral vision. Dean smiles a warm, sleepy smile at Cas and leans his head in his hand, elbow against the top of the piano. For some reason, Cas blushes, a faint red flush dusted over his cheeks and his neck, all entirely visible to Dean in the dim light of the room, Cas sitting shirtless in the very centre with red creeping down his skin. Dean’s hand comes out to trace the blush as it drifts down his body, over collar bones and onto his chest, at which point Cas’s fingers close around Dean’s wrist in a delicate hold, inspiring Dean to meet his eyes again. 

‘I’m sorry it wasn’t quite so impressive as the things I played for you the other day,’ Cas says, small, almost embarrassed smile gracing his features as he averts his gaze and releases Dean’s wrist. Dean kisses his cheek, runs his fingers through Cas’s hair.   
‘I thought it was awesome,’ he whispers, lips pressed against Cas’s hairline. Cas’s smile grows a tiny fraction and Dean is watching him with such intensity that he sees it right away and his chest tightens at the sight of it. Who’d have thought it, Dean’s angel, he who dragged Dean’s ass out of hell, blushing and grinning at a compliment about his night-time piano playing. ‘Play me another one,’ Dean says, turning to face the keys as Castiel does, laying his head upon Cas’s shoulder as long, lovely fingers set themselves against the ivory once more and a lilting concerto fills the air, drapes itself over the two of them like a knit blanket or the midsummer heat.


End file.
